The Sheltering Sky - Bowles, Paul [92]
She stood back and watched the laborious getting-down of the natives and the leisurely unloading of their possessions: camel saddles that shone in the moonlight, great formless bundles done up in striped blankets, coffers and sacks, and two gigantic women so fat they could barely walk, their bosoms, arms and legs weighted down with pounds of massive silver ornaments. And all these possessions, with their owners, presently disappeared behind the dark arcades and went out of hearing. She moved around so she could see the front end of the truck, where the chauffeur and mechanic and a few other men stood in the glare of the headlights talking. She heard French being spoken-bad French-as well as Arabic. The chauffeur reached in and switched off the lights; the men began to walk slowly up into the market place. No one seemed to have noticed her. She stood still a moment, listening.
She cried: “Tunner!”
One of the figures in a burnous stopped, came running back. On its way, it called: “Kit!” She ran a few steps, saw the other man turning to look, and was being smothered in Tunner’s burnous as he hugged her. She thought he would never let go, but he did, and said: “So you’re really here!” Two of the men had come over. “Is this the lady you were looking for?” said one. “Oui, oui!” Tunner cried, and they said good night.
They stood alone in the market place. “But this is wonderful, Kit!” he said. She wanted to speak, but she felt that if she tried, her words would turn to sobs, so she nodded her head and automatically began to pull him along toward the little public garden by the mosque. She felt weak; she wanted to sit down.
“My stuff is locked in the truck for the night. I didn’t know where I’d be sleeping. God, what a trip from Bou Noura! Three blowouts on the way, and these monkeys think changing a tire should always take a couple of hours at least.” He went into details. They had reached the entrance to the garden. The moon shone like a cold white sun; the spear-like shadows of the palm branches were black on the sand, a sharp unvaried pattern along the garden walk.
“But let’s see you!” he cried, spinning her around so the moon’s light struck her face. “Ah, poor Kit! It must have been hell!” he murmured, as she squinted up into the brightness, her features distorted by the imminent outbreaking of tears.
They sat on a concrete bench and she wept for a long time, her face buried in his lap, rubbing the rough wool of the burnous. From time to time he uttered consoling words, and as he found her shivering, he enveloped her in one great wing of the robe. She hated the salt sting of the tears, and even more she hated the ignominy of her being there, demanding comfort of Tunner. But she could not, could not stop; the longer she continued to sob, the more clearly she sensed that this was a situation beyond her control. She was unable to sit up, dry her tears, and make an attempt to extricate herself from the net of involvement she felt being drawn around her. She did not want to be involved again: the taste of guilt was still strong in her memory. Yet she saw nothing ahead of her but Tunner’s will awaiting her signal to take command. And she would give the signal. Even as she knew this she was aware of a pervading sense of relief, to struggle against which would have been unthinkable. What a delight, not to be responsible-not to have to decide anything of what was to happen! To know, even if there was no hope, that no action one might take or fail to take could change the outcome in the slightest degree-that it was impossible to be at fault in any way, and thus impossible to feel regret, or, above all, guilt. She realized the absurdity of still hoping to attain such a state permanently, but the hope would not leave her.
The street led up a steep hill where the hot sun was shining, the sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians looking in the shop windows. He had the feeling there was traffic in the side streets, but the shadows